Fences
by K9Lasko
Summary: As he struggles with a worsening anxiety disorder, McGee stubbornly clings to his job - all while trying to keep a certain DiNozzo at bay.
1. Prologue, Third and River

**Author's Note: **This in an NFA White Elephant Exchange (WEE) story written for FallenAngel218.

**Title:** Fences  
**Summary:** As he struggles with a worsening anxiety disorder, McGee stubbornly clings to his job - all while trying to keep a certain DiNozzo at bay.  
**Genre:** Drama  
**Rating:** FR13 / T - Some swearing, allusions to violence

**WEE Prompt:** "Someone has been prying into things that should remain locked up. Who is doing the prying, and who is hiding the deep, dark secret?"

* * *

**Fences**

_"Don't ever take a fence down until you know why it was put up." – Robert Frost._

* * *

**Prologue.  
"Third and River"**

Tim McGee parked at a meter on Third and River, letting the car idle as he watched the steady raindrops get swept away by quick passes of the windshield wipers. Both hands still on the wheel, he gnawed on his lip.

The lights in the intersection turned from green to yellow to red, before cycling through the colors again. The traffic obeyed. Vehicles slogged through pothole puddles as they turned on River or stopped at the white line or continued on Third. The neighborhood was worn and wet. Concrete bound trees, chain link fences around empty lots, bars on windows. Two smiling girls, huddled under a single umbrella, waited for a bus in the chilly, early fall rain.

Tim wasn't sure if he should stay, or if he should go. His gut had tied itself into several double knots.

He'd woken up hours ago from what hadn't really been sleep. More like six hours of tangling himself in the sheets, waiting for his cell phone alarm to go off. And then, after waking, there wasn't much else to do but watch the clock. Track the seconds as they came and went. He google mapped the address. Planned his route. Diligently avoided any and all toll roads.

And then he had actually gotten in his car and drove…

Until he ended up here, at this parking meter on Third and River. Across the street from Khalid's Groceries and Things - and above it, a plan-approved mental health center.

Finally, Tim reached for some spare coins to feed the meter.

He'd keep his appointment. After all, he always was a man of his word.


	2. Relief

**Chapter One.  
"Relief"**

Her name was Dr. Ortiz, and as uninspiring as she was, she'd do for Tim's purposes. She sat on a hard plastic chair opposite the couch, legs crossed, black stilettos looking deadly.

The psychiatrist had pencil-straight black hair, severe eyebrows, and an expression of blank impassiveness. She appeared as clinical as the room they sat in. Everything generic. A stiff pleather couch. A barren end table equipped with a box of tissues and a stack of coasters. Mass produced oil paintings of mountains, and woods, and beaches. Peacefully sterile.

And far, far away from the grit and smoggy pollution that waited outside. Reality, as they say.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Ortiz asked as a long rumble of thunder penetrated the double paned windows.

"Hard to explain," Tim admitted honestly. "Things have gotten a little-"

"Out of control?" she suggested. Perhaps it was meant to be gentle, but it came out more like a bark, a sudden and unmitigated 'hah! I knew it.' As a professional, she really needed to work on her couch-side manner.

Tim might have been offended, but right now he could only blink and give a slight shake of his head. "No, not exactly. Well, maybe… Yesterday, I brought a box of sprinkled doughnuts to work. I ruined them by picking the sprinkles off of all of them - not just mine." Tim knew how ridiculous this story sounded, but the feeling at the time had been so strong. The aftermath had been particularly embarrassing. "I just felt like I needed to do it. I needed to do it or else the day wouldn't go right. So I did it, and I felt better."

"Did your coworkers notice?"

Tim shrugged. "If they did, they didn't say much of anything, which is strange. I can't imagine that they didn't notice, though. I mean… All of the doughnuts looked a bit picked at. See, I like to take the sprinkles off because-"

"You don't like sprinkles?" Dr. Ortiz suggested.

"No, I think they put too many sprinkles on the doughnuts," Tim explained. "Look, I know it's stupid. But it's just… my thing. I have a lot of quirks."

"So, why don't you just buy doughnuts without sprinkles?"

"That's exactly what a coworker of mine said," Tim huffed. "But I like taking the sprinkles off. I've always done it. Ever since I can remember. It feels familiar. Believe me, if I could just stop doing these weird things, I would. If I could stop being anxious, I would!"

"I understand." She nodded and wrote something down on her notepad. "What happened with the doughnuts?"

Tim looked annoyed. He wasn't here to talk about his problem with sprinkled doughnuts! But, wanting to please, he answered, "Tony ate one anyway."

"Who is Tony?"

"Just a coworker."

"Does he have a problem with sprinkles, too?"

"I don't think so," Tim spoke with rare impatience. "Look-" But then he noticed that the doctor was smiling. It was the first genuine emotion she'd shown him thus far. "What?"

"That was a joke, Tim. I think sprinkles are the least of our worries right now." She reached out and touched him on the knee. Tim appeared vaguely unsettled. "Are you close with your coworkers?"

"Hard not to be, at times."

Dr. Ortiz decided to rephrase the question with something more specific. "Are you friendly with this Tony?"

"I guess, at times," Tim answered in much the same way. "Why is this important? If you need to know, Tony is an ass seventy-five percent of the time."

"And the other twenty-five percent?"

"He's tolerable. Occasionally supportive."

Again, the woman smiled. "I'm trying to gauge what your support system is like, Tim. That's an important thing. Do your coworkers know about your struggles with anxiety?

Tim quickly shook his head. "No. I've never told them. My family know, of course. And the agency knows. It came up during the psych eval and the security clearance application. But I had it under control, with medication. That was permissible. There are plenty of agents who-"

"I know," she cut him off. "But your coworkers… If you are close, they must know something."

"I think… I think they know something is wrong. Something is wrong with me."

The woman only nodded her head. "Okay. First of all, the doughnut thing. That's a compulsion. It's not dangerous, obviously, but it is what it is. It's a symptom of an underlying problem that you haven't been addressing. Our goal here, Tim, is to get the compulsions and anxiety under control again. But they may not go away completely."

"I realize that."

"It's good to have realistic expectations. If you're going to continue working in any capacity, we're going to have to do a lot of adjusting and experimentation with these meds." She glanced at her notepad briefly. "We'll probably have to try something else."

"What I'm taking now isn't even working. Yes, let's try something else…"

"Tim," the doctor broke in. Again, it was meant to be gentle, but it came out too abrupt and bark-like to be entirely soothing.

"Yes?"

"These symptoms probably won't go away-"

"You've already said that." Again, that rare impatience was showing itself. He needed to be at the office in ten minutes. Gibbs had been short with him all week. It was like he was suspicious of something. Disappointed.

But Dr. Ortiz went on, "Your occupation - stress worsens anxiety. Concentrates it. And when that stress is chronic, the condition will continue to worsen." She seemed to be preparing herself to unveil an important bit of news.

"This amount of stress is temporary," Tim argued. "It's been a rough couple of months. I just need some help managing it."

"Do you doubt your ability to react appropriately in a high stress situation?"

He opened his mouth, but then hesitated. "I've been through a lot. This job… There's no room for doubt."

"You're avoiding the question. Has there been an incident on the job where your reaction hasn't been appropriate?"

"No." Tim knew he was lying.

Dr. Ortiz blinked slowly, revealing green eye shadow. "No?" she repeated in an attempt to clarify.

He rubbed his hands over his face

"Why are you here, Tim?"

"That's what we've been talking about for the past half hour!"

"No, you need to stop the bullshit and tell me the truth," she said firmly.

Her sudden use of language surprised him. "I hesitated," he blurted.

"You hesitated?"

"Yes. Tony and I were out to collect somebody for questioning. The guy ran. I hesitated."

"Hesitated to do what?"

"I didn't go after him right away. I had a bad feeling that I couldn't shake," Tim swallowed. He looked down and bit his lip. "I let Tony run after him, and when he did, I felt relief. Relief that I didn't have to. Relief that Tony would take care of it. But, turns out, the guy had a gun. A loaded gun. He could have shot Tony while I was still standing by that door, deciding what to do. Could have been killed while I was feeling _relieved._ Afterwards, Tony didn't say anything about it. I honestly don't think he even noticed. Tony and I are very different people."

Dr. Ortiz was writing something else down. She said nothing in reply to his admission. Tim wrung his hands uncertainly; to him, the silence felt like damnation. "Okay, Tim," she finally began. "Here's our game plan. We're going to try a small dose of an antipsychotic along with the antidepressant."

"Antipsychotic?" Tim frowned. "Is that really necessary?"

"For some, it can be helpful when paired with the antidepressant. Some of the side effects can be troublesome. You may feel nauseous, dizzy, lethargic, moody."

"Great. And how am I supposed to work?"

"I'm recommending that you be placed on limited duty, at least until we get this back under control."

Tim swallowed, a brick settling somewhere in his stomach. Yet at the same time, in the back of his mind, he felt something else. It felt a lot like relief.

Relief. Tim shut his eyes and rubbed at them with the pads of his fingers.

"I know that's not what you want to hear, Tim, but I believe that's the most prudent option. I know you love your job, but you need to focus on yourself right now. Like I said, this isn't just going away. You can't wish it away. If it continues to worsen, you may lose your field agent status permanently, as well as your security clearance. After that, I could suggest you for disability-"

"No," Tim interrupted firmly. "I won't let that happen. If I have to stay at my desk for now, fine, but please don't tell them what's going on."

"Of course, Tim. It will be classified under a general mental health reason. No details will be disclosed. Recommendations on your mental fitness will be conveyed directly from me to your agency."

Tim looked doubtful.

"Nobody needs to know the details," she assured without much conviction. "Not unless you opt to tell them."


	3. Here Goes

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for the feedback and "follows" so far, especially "earthdragon." You have provided some valuable insight that perhaps I should have taken into account before declaring this story finished. At any rate, this story is largely unedited, so any mistakes, incongruencies, etc are purely my fault. I suppose that's what I get for basically freewriting a nearly 10k word story! Anyway, as this chapter suggests... Here goes...

* * *

**Chapter Two.  
"Here Goes"**

On his one day off, Tim lay in bed until nearly 11:30. He stared at the daylight peeking through his bedroom blinds. He could hear the birds, traffic, a lawnmower. Everything on the outside was unchanged - unmoved - but in this bedroom, Tim felt trapped in a quietly growing nightmare.

All at once, the memory of his current situation rushed back to meet him.

Limited duty. No field work.

What was he going to tell Gibbs? "Sorry, boss! I've gone off the rails a bit. But don't worry; it's only temporary! I'm on an antipsychotic!" Somehow Tim didn't think that would work, and he couldn't stomp down the lingering thought that maybe this wouldn't be temporary. Maybe this time, drugs and therapy wouldn't be enough. Maybe this was merely the beginning of the end - the end of his career, at least. The end of everything he'd built his life around.

And he hated that he felt so damn sorry for himself.

Tim swallowed hard and rubbed his hands over his morning stubble. He stank of sleep, and his movements were sluggish. The doctor lady hadn't been kidding. The antipsychotic left him feeling like he'd been trampled by a band of feral heifers. And right now he was too woozy to even think about keeping track of his morning routine and the myriad of neurosis that came along with that. He'd rather lie in bed until it was time for another dose. And then another one and another one and another one.

Was he supposed to feel this disconnected, this disjointed, this spaced-out?

He cracked out a sardonic laugh. So, the drugs were working, medicating him into something not much unlike a stupor. It was difficult to obsess and worry and even _think_ while safely anesthetized in one's bed. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he'd forgotten what normal felt like.

As Tim was gathering up the resolve needed to haul his carcass from bed, his cell phone started to do a little jig on the nightstand. There was a familiar flutter in his chest that awakened whenever he heard the familiar ring tone. Tim nearly fell out of bed as he leaned over to grab at it. He frowned when he saw the caller ID.

DiNozzo. Wonderful. That was one name that could induce anxiety even in the dead.

He let it go to voicemail, as he usually did when Tony called outside of working hours. If it were something important, he'd leave a message. Or call again. Or four times in a row like that one time. Tim had almost decided to pull a Gibbs and drown the cellular device in a can of paint thinner.

Sparing the phone for now, Tim staggered to the bathroom, peed for what felt like five minutes, washed his hands, splashed his face, and then fumbled around for some shaving cream. He knocked over a tube of toothpaste in the process.

The phone started ringing again. He _really_ hated that ring tone. Padding back to his bedroom and snatching the vibrating nuisance from the nightstand, Tim did away with any type of civilized greeting.

"What is it?" he asked shortly.

"Screening my calls again, McGrump?" Tony accused before getting straight to the point: "You need to be at the office. Five minutes ago."

Tim paused. Tony's usually bouncy tone now seemed tense and excitable. That was his usual "It's a case! It's a case!" reaction. Tony always seemed ready for whatever a typical - or even atypical - day doing this job brought, while Tim… Well, lately Tim had taken to dreading everything. Dreading phone calls, dreading orders from Gibbs, dreading what might happen, what might not happen, what could happen. Dreading the morning. Dreading the passing of minutes, of hours - the passing of time, which only brought him closer to what _could happen_. Because really _anything could happen_. Today, or tomorrow, or a week from now, someone could be killed or hurt or grotesquely maimed. He could make a major mistake. He could screw up. He could-

He had to put the racing thoughts to bed; he had to focus. Apparently, the meds weren't as good as he'd thought.

"What is it?" Tim asked again, yet this time it was with cautious concern. The familiar inkling of anxiety nibbled at his innards, but it was hardly pervasive. Not like before. But always, like an unwanted acquaintance, it was there. Waiting.

"Might have a new case," Tony answered right away. "Holy shit, you should see it. Maintenance tech got himself caught on some tow rigging. Oh man."

Tim could make out muffled talking in the background mixed with the occasional "bleep bleep" of emergency vehicles. He grimaced. "Tony, where are you?"

"Crime scene."

"I gathered that much-"

"But Gibbs says you're not allowed down here, so you gotta get to the office."

Tim was quiet for a while.

"McGee."

"Yeah, I'm going." He was already fumbling around for some clean, work-appropriate clothes.

"Why are you benched anyway? Something going on?" Tony's voice pressed into his ear. "Something's going on. Never thought my Timmy would see modified duty. What did you do? Taser somebody's great-grandma or something? Don't worry. I've got some pointers on how to get the brass off your back."

"It's limited duty, DiNozzo. I didn't do anything wrong. It's personal, and it's none of your business."

"Okay, McSassy. Got anything to do with the way you disfigured my doughnut the other day? Got some repressed rage to work out?" Tony goaded. "I'll let you know… Sprinkles make me happy. So next time, go easy on the poor thing…"

Tim usually kept a reservoir of patience meant just for Tony, but this statement immediately spiked his annoyance into the danger zone.

He knew it was coming, though. If there was anything he could expect from DiNozzo on a consistent basis, it was unwanted curiosity. And unwanted teasing. Tony wasn't really the type to let things go without proper investigation, or a properly sarcastic raking over the coals. Even little things - a moved stapler, a missing pack of post-it notes, a newly chewed on pen - were enough to arouse his suspicion. So a thing like Tim's new status as desk jockey was a total shift of the Earth for a person like DiNozzo. He had to poke, and he had to pry, and he had to dig, dig, dig. Tim's only option was to deflect or ignore or spill the truth, but he wasn't quite ready to do the latter. Not now. Not to DiNozzo.

"McGeeeee," Tony whined.

Tim's silence as he stared at a shirt - only slightly wrinkled - did not help matters. He wanted Tony to get a clue and shut the hell up, for once. Finally, he said, "Tell Gibbs that I'll be at the office as soon as I can."

"What's going on, Probie? You're gonna tell me, right? Don't make me worry about you."

Almost compulsively, Tim pressed end and stared at the phone. Mercifully, it stayed silent. He looked despondently at the clothes he'd picked out. He was glad he didn't have to work in the same room with Tony today, not when he was feeling this distinct urge to punch him in the face.

"Well, here goes," he mumbled to no one but himself.


	4. I'm Trying

**Chapter Three.  
"I'm Trying"**

Storms were blowing thick off of the Atlantic by the time Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva arrived back at the office. All three seemed to flee the elevator at once - perhaps to get away from each other, judging by their shared grimaces. They were soaking wet, jackets dripping all over the floor.

Tim looked up briefly from his desk. After hearing that the gruesomely-cut-in-half maintenance tech case had turned into a mere gruesomely-cut-in-half accident, he had decided to bury himself in office busy work. Going home had also been an option, and it might have been the better one considering the tension the returning team brought with them. He bit his lip, tapped his pen against the page he was looking at, and tried to blend into the background.

Gibbs looked pissed. He spared none of them any glances - or even a grunt - as he threw his jacket on the back of his chair. DiNozzo, ever ingratiating and seemingly desperate for some type of break in what was turning out to be one helluva Gibbs-storm, smiled toothily at his boss and attempted a joke.

"Well, that sure was a _cut_ and dry situation, now wasn't it?" Tony said. "Pun intended. Although, I guess it wasn't entirely dry..."

Ziva, now sitting at her own desk, cracked a small smile at Tony's lame attempt. But she also looked a bit sympathetic.

Gibbs stabbed DiNozzo with a glare. "You, shut up." Then, with more force than was absolutely necessary, he nudged the hefty warmth of his senior field agent out of his way. He nearly knocked a file off of Tim's desk. "Hurry up and take care of whatever problem you got, McGee, because I'm gonna need a replacement for this bonehead," Gibbs growled in parting as he headed for the stairway.

Tim's cheeks suddenly felt hot as his eyes attempted to bore holes in the paperwork in front of him.

"That is quite a compliment, Tim," Ziva stated while lazily checking her emails.

"Give Gibbs an hour or so, and he'll be fine with me," Tony was saying. "This is a mere blip in our otherwise stellar working relationship."

"I actually recall him saying, 'I hope I don't have to look at DiNozzo again for at least forty-eight hours,'" Ziva corrected.

Tony scoffed. The frenetic grin he'd been fostering was crumbling, only to be replaced by a troubled look of malcontent. "He can't stay mad at me," he reasoned. "Who'll be left to do actual police work around here? Huh?" He shot a pissy look at Tim.

"Tony," Ziva warned sharply. All day she had played the odd role as buffer between Tony and Gibbs - and now she was assuming yet another duty: keeping Tony and Tim away from each other's throats. Quite frankly, she thought it was time DiNozzo took what some might call a "chill pill."

"No. Hear me out. Gibbs has been a black cloud ever since McWorryWart over here decided to go on limited duty," DiNozzo glanced at Tim, who was attempting to calm his sudden anger with steady breaths. "We're down a semi-competent person, and you know what? I'm sick of taking all of the blame for everything! DiNozzo do this! DiNozzo do that! No, no, DiNozzo! DiNozzo! DiNozzo! Can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm tired of my own name."

"I didn't decide anything, Tony." Tim stood up and started to yank on his coat. "I'm going home. It's my day off. It's not my fault that Gibbs is pissed at you, again. Not my fault that you made the mistake of calling everybody out on a bogus case."

"No, you're not going anywhere," DiNozzo protested. "Not until you tell us what's going on with you lately."

"He doesn't have to tell us anything, Tony," Ziva said, voice suddenly flinty. It seemed that she was growing beyond weary of Tony's strong personality.

"If there's something wrong and you can't be out there with us, we should know what it is," Tony argued while watching Tim closely. He was looking for some sort of reaction. Waiting for it. "Shouldn't we?"

Tim bristled where he stood. "You're an asshole."

Ziva was rubbing at her temples. "Stop, you two," she mumbled halfheartedly.

"I asked what was going on," DiNozzo forged on. "A completely valid question." He saw how tightly Tim's fists were clenched. They were actually trembling.

Tim replied, "And I said you're an asshole. I already told you; it's personal. Respect that. Please."

DiNozzo regarded him for several moments, quick hazel eyes looking for some kind of break, a tell, a sign. Of something. Of anything. But Tim knew that the other man couldn't see how hard his heart was thudding against his ribcage, or how much this strange confrontation was ripping at his guts, or how the nervous sweat was starting to soak through the back of his shirt.

"Okay, fine," Tony suddenly agreed, reluctance making the word a lot less genuine. He then looked away and seemed to shake himself off, like a dog recovering from a brief spat amongst friends. He contented himself with rearranging a few things on his desk, as if nothing had even happened.

Tim wasn't quite that resilient. Moving stiffly, he started packing for going home. Files, notebooks, an untouched lunch, water bottle. He packed everything in his bag with more force than necessary. Ziva watched surreptitiously as she continued to click through her emails.

"Still here, DiNozzo?" Gibbs barked as he seemed to suddenly materialize from a solid wall. He ignored both Tim and Ziva as he sat down. They took that to be a good sign.

"Boss?" Tony looked up with hopeful enthusiasm.

"Go home." He shooed his hands at them, an almost comical gesture coming from him. "Hurry up. Get outta here."

Tim didn't need to be told twice. He was already halfway to the elevator, Ziva tailing him. Tony was struggling to make up for lost time.

"Not you, Tony," Gibbs called DiNozzo back.

Tim watched, not without a fair bit of vindication, as DiNozzo reluctantly obeyed. But then Ziva was punching the button for the parking garage. The doors slid closed soon thereafter.

"I hope Gibbs ends up killing him," Tim muttered darkly. His body was still wound up with frustrated rage. Somewhere in his mind he realized that this anger was disproportionate to the actual situation, but it had built up so quickly. He hadn't had the time or the energy to adjust to it yet. He felt wonky in general, and strangely unstable.

The doctor lady had mentioned mood swings. But, clearly, she hadn't mentioned that they would range from "groggy space cadet" to "homicidal maniac."

Tim was so wrapped up in his own personal saga, that he almost didn't feel Ziva touching his shoulder gently. "I do not think we will be so lucky," she was saying.

"He's such a dick. I wanted to hit him," he admitted, clutching the strap of his backpack. He tried to imagine what kind of stress relief he could get from breaking his hand on DiNozzo's face. "I almost did, Ziva."

The elevator doors opened into the well-lit garage. The smell of car exhaust and cold concrete hit them immediately. Ziva wrapped a strong hand around Tim's elbow, effectively keeping him in place. Their personal vehicles were in different aisles; she clearly wasn't ready for them to part. Not quite yet.

"You wouldn't," she spoke.

"Wouldn't what?"

"You wouldn't hit Tony."

Tim watched her. In this artificial daylight, her eyes were almost black. Concern stretched across her face. It was genuine; it had to be genuine. She was trying to be a good friend, and maybe Tony was, too, in his own way. Regardless, he wasn't a fan of Tony's way, and he still felt like kneeing him hard in the groin.

He hadn't wanted to admit that these people - mere coworkers - were perhaps the best support system he had right now. And it was difficult to even consider taking down the fences he'd worked so hard to build and maintain.

"Okay, no. I wouldn't," Tim said. "But he still pisses me off."

"He did not mean any of it. He was frustrated."

Tim frowned. "This would sound a lot more sincere if he told me it himself."

"I know. But you have to believe me. He is really worried about you, and so am I."

Tim tensed visibly, predicting what she might ask next.

Ziva smiled. "I won't ask you what is wrong, but I _will_ ask if you are okay. So. Are you okay?"

Emotion swept over him like a rogue wave. His tongue thickened at the back of his throat and his eyes began to sting. _Oh no, no, no,_ he inwardly wailed. There was no way he was going to start crying in front of Ziva David.

By the sheer force of will and dignity, Tim stamped down the unwelcome emotions and willed away the tears. _Get a hold of yourself!_

"Yes," he answered quietly, but it lacked conviction. "I will be. I'm trying."


	5. Just a Little

**Chapter Four.  
"Just a Little"**

"I had a panic attack," Tim stated. He rubbed at his goose pimpled arm. For whatever reason, the AC in the room had been set to arctic blast - regardless of the fact that it was a pleasant and sunny seventy-five degrees outside. The past week's rain and storms had relinquished their tyrannical hold, kindly allowing summer one last gasp before the siege of winter.

Tim usually welcomed this change of seasons… the refreshing chill of autumn, the ritual shedding of spent summer leaves. But now it seemed ominous. He wasn't ready for the long, dark nights and the truncated days marked by leaden skies. Black road slush. Everything cold and lonely. People bundled up against the wind, turning inward against the world.

"Are you cold?" Dr. Ortiz sat opposite of him, on that same hard plastic chair. Everything like usual. Same black pleather couch. Same paintings. Same tissue box perched on the end table, untouched and gathering dust. Dr. Ortiz, it seemed, did not cater to many weepy clients.

Steadily, Tim was getting to know her, and the one-dimensional personality had suddenly bloomed into something more layered. Her given name was Pam. She had a girlfriend, and a child. A pre-teen boy with a mess of black hair who sometimes sulked in the corner of the reception area with his iPad. She had a wry sense of humor and a steady kindness.

"It's freezing in here," he said.

"Better than boiling. Walid downstairs cooks a whole week's worth of goat curry on Wednesdays. Gets hot up here and inevitably stinks of goat meat."

"I thought it was called Khalid's Groceries and Things?"

"There is no Khalid. Just a Walid."

"Right."

"About the panic attack," she steered the conversation back on track. "Tell me about that."

"My mood… it's been all over the place, and I don't know what's up or down. It's my coworker. Tony," Tim started. He couldn't help but utter Tony's name with hard-edged anger. He'd said it many times before with varying shades of aggravation and sometimes even supplication… but never with so much righteous anger. It was an emotion that was hard to curb, especially after Tim found out what Tony had done. "If I was mad at him before, that hardly compared to how I felt when I realized what he'd done…"

* * *

_In the parking garage, Tim found DiNozzo leaning a hip against his car. "McGee-"_

_"You bastard! You looked through my stuff," he accused. "You looked through my emails!"_

_"You shouldn't have left them up-" Tony defended himself weakly. His expression appeared contrite. "I needed to know."_

_"Those were private. What is your problem? Can't you just leave well enough alone?"_

_"Now I know, and-"_

_But Tim didn't give him time to elaborate. He didn't know what made him do it, and he couldn't believe what he was doing when his body moved forward seemingly on its own accord. Tim's hands grabbed at DiNozzo's jacket and with brutality he didn't know he possessed - coupled with his own solid weight - Tim rammed him against the side of his car. He didn't care about putting a dent in the door, which could very well have happened, judging by the loud "thud" noise Tony's body made when it connected with the unyielding metal._

_"Get off me!" DiNozzo cried in stunned alarm, his arms shoving at the mass of pissed-off probie currently mauling him._

_The altercation ended as quickly as it began._

_Tim ripped himself from DiNozzo, stalked towards the rear of the car, and then turned, pacing to-and-fro, hands shoved into his hair._

_Still frozen and listing awkwardly against the car, Tony watched warily as Tim started to melt down. "It's not that big of a deal," he attempted to soothe. "I mean, hell! So what, you've got a problem with worrying. We can work with that-"_

_"Shut up, DiNozzo," Tim muttered._

_"Better than being an alcoholic like Gibbs, or a sadist like Ziva," Tony attempted a laugh._

_"Oh god." Tim sank into a squat near the rear wheel of the car, hands still in his hair. His eyes focused on the concrete of the parking garage, noting the oil stains and grit and fading white lines. His breaths came fast and frantic, and his heart felt like it was going to beat itself right out of his chest._

* * *

"I was mad and embarrassed, both at the same time," Tim admitted. He picked at a small fray on his jeans. "And I had a panic attack in front of him. I haven't had a panic attack in years. Not since college."

"And how did he react?" the doctor pushed.

Tim shrugged and looked off towards the window. "He hugged me."

Dr. Ortiz raised a brow. "Do you two hug often?"

Tim shrugged yet again. "It's not like that. Whatever you're thinking."

"What am I thinking?" she asked cryptically, a smirk broadening on her face.

"He likes to hug. And I guess-" Another shrug. It seemed to be a nervous tick of Tim's as of late.

"You guess-?"

"I guess we're friends."

"But you're still upset with him for having broken your trust."

Slowly, Tim nodded. "I think it made me even more angry. Angry that he'd do that to me."

"Have you spoken to him since?"

"No," he answered immediately. "I don't want to."

"Your friend has some inappropriate curiosity about your - and probably other's - personal issues," Dr. Ortiz observed. "That's his problem, not yours. But now the cat's out of the bag, Tim, and maybe you can use this to your advantage. If he's the friend you say he is, talk to him," she suggested gently. "You need to have somebody other than me to talk to. You need to let them in."

* * *

Tim sat alone in his darkening apartment and stared at his bookcase. They were changing up his meds… again. The panic attack was a concern and a clear indication that the present course of action wasn't quite enough.

Before the advent of the panic attack, work had been more of the same. Then again it wasn't ever the same watching Gibbs and the rest of the team leave and return from the field. Gibbs' ever-brusque "grab your gear!" had a Pavlovian effect on him. At first, he'd jump and look towards his bag. And then he'd feel the familiar twisting of the bundle of nerves buried somewhere in his middle. It was hard, however, to describe what exactly he felt when he watched their backs disappear into the elevator, or through the door to the stairwell. It was an ugly hybrid of relief and regret and frustration. He wanted to follow and hang behind at the same time.

Tim hated the confusing murk of emotion. He preferred to remember how it was before. When he was eager to follow Gibbs out to wherever he took them. It was a nervous sort of eager, but it was Gibbs who'd said once that caution could save lives.

He wanted that back.

His cell phone lit up and chimed. A text message.

Tim rolled his computer chair towards the table, and poked at the phone.

"Hey," it read.

He knew without looking at the sender - which clearly read DiNozzo in bold print - that it was Tony. He had an amusing way of texting with friends. Sometimes Tim wondered if he learned how to text from a sixteen year old. He always started with a "hey." If no one replied within five or ten minutes, he'd follow up with a "hey hey." And then after that, a "hey hey hey." Tim once received six heys before he noticed what was going on and responding in all caps: "STOP TEXTING ME, DINOZZO."

Tim glared at his phone. Hey.

It was fairly innocuous. An olive branch, perhaps. Or more like a twig.

Leaning back in his chair, he replied back in kind. "Hey."

A reply came relatively quickly. "Meet me at Nick's. Need directions, or will you use the McGPS?"

In the dark, Tim had to smile. Just a little.


	6. Learn How to Cope

**Chapter Five.  
"Learn How to Cope"**

Tucked between a bakery and an Italian delicatessen, Nick's was a warm and cozy nook of alcohol-assisted diversion. An "old soul's cop bar" some would call it, where the loud and the rowdy were convinced to go elsewhere. It was filled with honey-colored wood, a five-foot stretch of beers on tap, two pool tables, and several tacky strings of multi-colored LED lights. One wall housed an expansive collection of law enforcement patches from all over, ranging from the Virginia State Police to Chicago SWAT to FDLE. The place was run by its namesake, who was a Metro guy forced into early retirement due to a bullet in his leg.

Nick was a bit of a talker. He made a sport out of limping around to "talk shop" with the melting pot of LEOs who all came there to water like animals emerging from some dusty savannah. He had a strangely calming presence, heavy set and graying. His eyes - a dark and gentle brown, softened by time - crinkled at their corners when he smiled, which was often - and regardless of his bad teeth.

By the time Tim finally pushed through the bar's door, Nick was working the tap while shooting the breeze with a gaggle of Metro cops. He gave Tim a jaunty wave; Tim nodded back politely before he started scanning the crowd for DiNozzo. He was a little self-conscious as he continued to search through the many faces, some vaguely familiar, others completely unfamiliar. With his luck, Tony would be surrounded by a sudden and impromptu fan club. Tony always had stories to tell. His crowd would always stick around for a night before going their separate ways.

DiNozzo, it seemed, was an entertainer of many but a friend of very few.

Tim spotted him at the far end of the bar, near the vast wall of patches. Only one person sat with him, and Tim recognized who it was immediately. But why Tony and Ned Dorneget seemed to be holding what looked like a comfortably casual conversation was anybody's guess.

Tony saw him first; smiling easily, he gestured for Tim to hurry up. Dorneget looked up then, too, and gave them both a nervous grin. He emptied his beer glass before standing. "Hey, McGee," he greeted before glancing once more at DiNozzo. "Uh, I gotta go."

"See you later," Tony said as Dorneget retreated towards the door. He patted the chair beside him. "Glad you could make it."

"What was that all about?" Tim couldn't help but ask.

DiNozzo was lazily sipping his own beer. "Pardon?"

"You and Dorneget."

"What, I can't have a conversation with Dorney outside of work hours?" Tony teased. "I think he'll be the next one on the team. You've done a good job with him."

Tim quirked a brow in suspicion. "Wouldn't go so far as to say that. There was that one time he forgot his gun and let someone we were escorting get away." He gestured for a beer. Whatever Tony was having. He didn't want to get fancy.

"Teachable moments, Probie."

"It's hard to teach someone who's secured to a toilet by their own handcuffs," Tim retorted.

Tony chuckled and watched as Nick brought over the beer.

"How are my NCIS boys doing?" the man asked loudly. "You alls are about as rare as rockin' horse shit around here. What's the deal?"

"Budget cuts," Tony joked.

"Shit," Nick laughed. "Good to see you still alive and kickin, DiNozzo. Lookatchu, though. Gettin' some gray hairs."

It was Tim's turn to laugh at that.

Tony did not seem remotely bothered by the good-natured ribbing. "Not as many as my boss."

"Lucky he ain't around to hear that," Nick roared before he was off again.

Tim was suddenly sucking at his beer like a horse at a trough. Tony gave him a sideways glance. "So…"

"How's your back?" Tim interrupted. "I'm sorry I, uh- did that."

Tony shrugged, "To be honest, I'm thinking about using you as my chiropractor. Never felt better."

"Seriously?" Tim looked doubtful. "You hit your back pretty hard."

"Just some bruising. Nothing I didn't deserve. Actually, I probably deserved to be run over by the car. But I figure that would've messed up your tire alignment," DiNozzo winked.

Tim shook his head and huffed out a breath.

They sat in silence for a bit, both of them letting the familiar bar noise wash over them like an incoming tide.

"Probably shouldn't be drinking too much with whatever drugs you're taking, Tim," Tony suddenly said, voice low and soft.

"One beer won't kill me," Tim protested.

"Tim-"

"I don't want to talk about it right now," Tim suddenly snapped. "Okay? I just want to hear you apologize for seriously violating my privacy, and then I want to go home." He didn't know where this outburst came from exactly. They had been doing fine with each other before. Tim shook his head, "Because to be honest, I'm sick of you right now. I'm all DiNozzo'd out."

The silence that stretched now was decidedly uncomfortable.

"So that's it, huh. It's McGee versus the world. McGee all alone, nowhere to turn," DiNozzo spoke quietly as he gazed at the colorful strings of LED lights. They were a bit hypnotizing. The vast amount of beer he'd consumed was doing a good job dulling his senses.

"Shut up, Tony," Tim muttered as he stared at his own hands. His fingers were tracing patterns through the condensation clinging to the glass. "I didn't come here so you could make fun of me."

"Who's making fun?" Tony argued. "Just saying, according to you, life's awfully tough out there… for a McGee."

"I'm leaving." Tim moved to get up. "I thought maybe you'd have something…" Something what? Something nice to say? For once? He must have been yanking his own chain. "Don't know why I bothered."

"Wait a minute," Tony suddenly requested. "Don't be such a girl."

Tim felt a hand tugging at his wrist. He wondered how long DiNozzo had been here drinking before he showed up... Drinking and talking on a friendly basis with Dorneget. It was hard to tell these days. Tony was steadily aging from a fun and loose drunk into a more reflective and stoic one. Tony's grip was warm and unfamiliar against the thin skin of his wrist; he immediately wanted to pry himself free from the unwelcome contact.

"Don't go yet," Tony said. "Okay?"

Tim slowly sank back onto the hard wooden stool. "Fine."

"Thank you." Tony let him go and then resumed sipping at his glass. "Look, I know I give you a lot of reason to be pissed at me. And maybe looking through your emails and your bag was wrong-"

"Maybe?" Tim interrupted.

"Okay, it's not right at all," Tony nodded. He emptied his drink some more. "It just reminds me," he smiled slightly. "My dad and I… We used to play this game. I'd try to figure out where he was going, or where he'd been. And why. I was little, so I'd come up with these elaborate stories… Safari in Africa, to see the elephants; pirate ship on the ocean, to find a pet monkey; stuff like that.

"After my mom passed, things were weird for a while. The game became a bit competitive. He got better at hiding things, but I got better at looking. One night I found the ring he was going to give to his new fling at the time. I was old enough by then to know what that meant. I was mad. I was so mad. I thought he was replacing my mom. We weren't on the best of terms at that point. I wasn't the best child to raise, I admit."

"Why are you telling me all of this?" Tim asked. DiNozzo opening up was as rare as a wild orchid bloom. It was uncomfortable, yet at the same time intriguing. And with the liberal amount of alcohol swirling around in Tony's bloodstream, the story was a bit jumbled - pieces mixed together like a jigsaw puzzle. But Tim was good at puzzles. He knew how to gather the random assortment of pieces, how to arrange them, how to fit them all together to form a meaningful whole.

Tony watched Tim closely with eyes as murky as a pond. He continued, "For once, Senior was trying to teach me something that I've still never completely learned. After I found that ring, he said to me… 'Junior! People keep things locked up for a reason.'" He let out an airy laugh. "I knew he wanted to keep it away from me - the ring, his new relationship, the little booze bottles tucked in between the clothes of his suitcase. He knew I would take all of it the wrong way, because when you're that age and your mother's newly dead, and when you're feeling your most alone… Yeah, it was easy to blame my dad. And I know now that he wasn't replacing my mom any more than he was just trying to put a band-aid on a gaping wound."

Tony stopped and considered the tiny bubbles of carbonation rising in his glass. "I'm getting to a point, here," he finally spoke again before Tim could.

Then again, Tim was always a better listener than a talker. All Tim said was: "Okay."

"Anyway, that was our game, but it ended when he managed to put enough distance between me and him. No hard feelings, not really. And who would have thought I'd end up making a living basically playing that game.

"Made me think about why people hide things." Tony turned his eyes back onto Tim. "Guilty people hide things - I believe that's Gibbs Rule number whatever - but there are other reasons, too. They hide things because they are ashamed. Because they are afraid or uncertain. They don't know what people will think of them. So they put up these fences. Big fences - walls, even - to keep certain stuff in and keep other stuff out-"

"You don't have to tell me that, Tony, I already know," Tim suddenly said. His voice was not defensive, however, or even annoyed. It was quiet, practically a whisper. Tony's gaze now was almost uncomfortably sincere. Tim had been seriously questioning Tony's friendship. He trusted him on the job, of course, but in his personal life, he'd wanted to keep him at arm's length. They were just too different, weren't they? Like cats and dogs, oil and water, or any other pair of things that just don't mix or mingle. Now he felt somewhat foolish for having doubted the other man's devotion. Now, when it had been so readily and generously given.

"I know you do, buddy." Tony leaned over and nudged his shoulder into Tim's. "Hang in there. You're better than your big brain leads you to believe."

Tim snorted and looked at his hands again.

"I'm sorry, Tim."

Tim glanced up.

"Sorry for prying like that. It's not any of my business. I hope that whatever you're doing helps. I want you back out there, Probie. All of us want you back out there. Hell, Gibbs said it himself. He needs you around to replace me," Tony joked. "You're good. Rule number five. Can't waste it. Plus, you take a best crime scene photos. You got the touch with that Nikon."

"I just need to get a handle on it again," Tim started to open up, although he was hesitant. "I get so fucking _anxious_. I can't think clearly because I'm thinking _too much_."

"It's the job, then?"

"The job makes it worse," Tim whispered.

Tony nodded. "I don't think anybody can do this job for as many years as us and come out the same as when they started. It brings out the best and the worst in people."

"I know."

"Do you?" Tony asked truthfully. "We see things nobody should have to see. We hardly even have time to process what's happened before something else happens. Hell, every time I get in my car after shift, I'm thinking 'okay, I'm going home and I'm okay.'"

"I do know."

"Good. Just give yourself some time, then. Learn how to cope again, and then come back to us. This can't be the first time this has happened since you've joined NCIS."

Tim shook his head. "You're right," he admitted.

"So, when else?"

"When I shot that cop, when Gibbs left…" Tim paused, swallowed. "Kate."

"We were all pretty messed up after Kate died," Tony agreed.

They drank some more in silent respect.

"I wanted to tell you something else." Tony rubbed his thumb through some water that his glass left behind. "Before you start thinking you're mentally deficient again, or that you're the only one, or whatever. I- uh. I was on... the 'happy pill' once."

Tim frowned, "Really?"

"After I quit Baltimore and followed Gibbs to NCIS. After FLETC. I was commuting from Baltimore to D.C., which is a nightmare. Wendy didn't want to move. Gibbs was more of an unholy bastard than I'd expected, but I guess I just wasn't used to him yet. The whole first year I couldn't do much right. Then Wendy dumped me for reasons I still don't understand. Ended up moving to D.C. and living out of a suitcase for a bit. Stayed with Gibbs for a little while; _that_ was a disaster. I was pretty down-and-out by that point." Tony took a long drink. "Had a decent career, but my personal life was quickly going down the shitter." He looked off towards the tap, reading the labels and perhaps planning his next choice.

"It was actually Abby who suggested I might need some help. She barely knew me at the time, but she saw it. I didn't even realize how far things had gone. So I sucked it up - just like you did - and I got some help."

"I would have never thought," Tim admitted. "You ever tell Gibbs?"

"I did, actually," Tony answered quietly. "And he told me exactly what I told you. Learn how to cope, and then come back. You either can, or you can't. You're either made to withstand this job, or you're not."


	7. Come Back to Us

**Chapter Six.  
"Come Back to Us"**

Tim slowly pulled his car alongside the curb in front of the immaculately maintained two-story house. On a Sunday's early evening, the neighborhood was mostly quiet. A teenager practiced his jump shot down the street and two young girls, bundled up against the fifty-degree chill, drew pictures on the sidewalk pavement with colored chalk.

He suddenly wondered how painful this family-friendly neighborhood was for Gibbs. The man was perhaps the only solitary inhabitant living within a five-block radius, constantly surrounded by echoes and glimpses of the road his life could have taken. It was depressing to think about, at any rate. Then again, Gibbs probably only thought about it in passing nowadays, when a fond memory came or even when bad one did. It was hard to avoid everyday life, and there were only so many years of one's life that could be lived in complete sadness and regret. Much like happiness, sorrow came and went.

Tim shut off his car and stepped out onto the neatly manicured piece of lawn that separated curb from sidewalk, watching carefully for dog turds. A few bright yellow leaves littered the grass, courtesy of the mature oak trees that lined the streets. He had to step around the little girls. They giggled and gasped when he accidentally stepped on a colorfully drawn flower.

"Sorry, girls," he apologized genuinely.

"The rain'll wash it all away anyways," one of them answered before getting back to work on their joint masterpiece.

Gibbs' door was unlocked, and as it swung inward, Tim wondered if he should shout out a greeting. The last thing he wanted was a Sig pointed in his face. But he heard noises coming from the kitchen, and the warm scent of dinner hit him at the boundary between foyer and porch. Tim shut the door loudly, hoping to clue Gibbs in that someone was here.

The noises in the kitchen stopped. "Tony?" Gibbs called out DiNozzo's given name. Tim instantly thought that maybe Gibbs was expecting Tony tonight - and definitely not him.

Tim stepped into the kitchen doorway. Gibbs was stirring a pot of something on the stove. He was slightly surprised by the show of domesticity, even though he knew that was a foolish thought. Even Leroy Jethro Gibbs was an everyday human performing everyday tasks to maintain his everyday life. "No, uh- It's McGee."

"I can see that now, Tim," Gibbs answered dryly.

"You're not in the basement." Tim's attempts at conversation were notably awkward. He immediately bit his tongue at such a dumb statement.

Gibbs appeared amused. "Well, yeah. I happen to live in a whole house." He turned back to his dinner.

Tim shifted in place as he fought for words… or something. Maybe a socially appropriate action. Something other than standing here like some scarecrow. Right now, he might as well be a coat rack in the corner of Gibbs' foyer.

"Take a load off, McGee. You're making me nervous, standing there like that. At this point, DiNozzo would've already taken over the couch, eaten half my dinner, and talked my ear off."

Tim's face felt hot, but he forced himself to sit at the table. He slung his coat over the back of his chair. He liked Gibbs' house. It was clean, uncluttered and sparsely decorated, but still it felt distinctly… like a home. "He come here often?"

"Who? Tony?" Gibbs shook his head. "Not as much as he used to." He grabbed two bowls from the cabinet. "You hungry?"

"Uh - no, that's okay."

Gibbs put a bowl of steaming soup in front of Tim anyway. He sat down with his own. He took a pull off of a bottle of beer before adding a liberal amount of Tabasco sauce to his bowl. "So, you gonna share with me why 'the powers that be' put you on limited duty?"

Tim put a cracker in the soup before poking at it with his spoon. It was stubbornly buoyant. "I think you already know."

Gibbs started eating in earnest. He was the kind of person that engulfed the entire spoon while eating soup. There was a lot of tooth against metal clacking going on. Whereas Tim was more of a sipper of soup and then a nibbler on whatever solid chunks appeared from the liquid.

Tim was also the kind of person who tended to notice these pointless little details.

"You're right." Between bites, Gibbs broke him out of his endless thoughts. "I do."

"Did DiNozzo tell you?" Tim put down his spoon and sat back in the chair.

Gibbs grunted as if Tim had just claimed that the sky was blue.

"Fuck him," Tim muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his forehead and into his hair.

"Come again?" Gibbs asked, having heard Tim say something.

Tim flushed. "Nothing."

"I've taught him to tell me things that are important," Gibbs went on. He pointed his spoon at Tim. "You should have told me sooner."

"I know." Tim had to admit that he didn't mind that Tony had done so. In fact, he even appreciated it. A lot.

"Look, Tim." Gibbs pushed away his already empty bowl. "I wanted you on this team because of your mind, and I'll be damned if you let that same mind ruin your career. I know you've been talking to DiNozzo, but he's not much of a therapist-"

"Better than you might think. At least he talks, unlike you," Tim added in jest. He couldn't believe he was joking with Leroy Jethro Gibbs…

Gibbs cracked a rare grin and took a long draw from the beer bottle. "Yeah, he's good at that; he can do my talking for me."

"He mentioned that you might have some advice for me," Tim added. Slowly, he began to eat his now-lukewarm soup again.

"For you, I have something more unique." Gibbs stood and put his bowl in the sink. He then turned and looked his junior field agent straight in the eye. "Get better. I want you back out there before snow starts to fly... Or else I just might kill DiNozzo."


	8. Epilogue, River and Third

**Epilogue.  
"River and Third"**

The days were steadily getting colder as the great gray wall of winter began its final descent. Nights dipped near freezing and the daylight barely inspired any temperatures over forty-five. Clouds billowed off of the Atlantic, as biting winds followed in their wake. On a Tuesday morning, and the morning of his final evaluation with Dr. Ortiz, Tim woke up for a pre-dawn run. Frost clung to the grass outside his apartment. He could make out the beginnings of the sun's ascent over the tops of the trees in the park. Breathing deeply, he stretched his sleepy limbs. The cold air stung his lungs. He blew out a thick cloud of steam.

A familiar car pulled into the parking lot. Tim watched as a man dressed in a wool-flapped hat, loose jeans and at least two sweatshirts emerged, hands filled with two hot beverage cups and a paper bag. "You're late," Tim observed.

"It's early," Tony whined, shivering in the chill. He already missed his car's heater. "And it's cold."

"I'm still going on a run. Thought you'd be up for it, too," Tim challenged.

"When you said run, I thought you said walk. This weather kills me. I'll be hacking up at least one lung a quarter mile in."

"Stay here, then. Here's my key," Tim pressed his set of keys into Tony's already item-laden hands.

"Oooh, McGee. I'm already getting a key!" Tony teased.

Tim rolled his eyes. "What's in the cups? Coffee?"

"Hot chocolate," Tony answered. "Figured caffeine might give you the jitters."

"And the bag?"

Tony smirked. "Sprinkled doughnuts."

"You really are an ass."

When Tim returned, red-cheeked and warm from his run, he found Tony dead asleep on the couch under his grandmother's old afghan. He shook his head as he glanced at the clock, gauging the time he had left to get ready for his appointment. He was feeling better and more optimistic than he had in months. His moods had stabilized, his energy had returned, and he had a clear head. And although he was still nervous about this important meeting - a meeting that would determine his fitness for field duty - it was a healthy kind of nervous. An excited kind of nervous.

And DiNozzo, who had been sticking around lately as persistently as a shadow, had wanted in on this momentous event. There hadn't been much Tim could do to dissuade him… Not even a threat of an early morning run, which Tony had decided to turn into some sort of bohemian sleep in.

* * *

Later that morning, Tim pulled his car up to a familiar meter at Third and River, across the street from Khalid's Groceries and Things. Two girls in thick coats waited for a bus. Traffic obeyed the light. The concrete of the neighborhood looked bleak and frozen. Tim bit his lip.

Tony watched quietly from the passenger seat, eyes green in the muted daylight. "You okay?" he asked.

Small white flakes began to fall from the low ceiling of clouds. Tim watched them as they settled and melted on the windshield. Winter was here, and the snow was flying. He looked briefly at Tony and then towards the clinic. "Yeah," he answered. "I'm feeling okay now."

[fin]


End file.
